The Story of Bat Canyon, part 1

“No, I don’t reckon I’ve seen this before,” the preacher said, standing up and slipping his broad brimmed slouch hat back on.  “This cow’s been drained.”  The carcass laying on the ground in front of him was freshly dead, but hadn’t started to smell yet.  The neck was open in a ragged wound, and there was blood on the hide around it, but not near enough to account.  

“See, preacher?” the rancher said to him.  “It’s unholy!  What kind of monster would do this?”  The older rancher stood there with his ranch foreman, pale and sweating more than the cool of the morning would have caused.  He’d sent his foreman to come get the preacher when the carcass had been discovered a little after dawn.  It was far enough out from the ranch house to not be seen easily, but close enough to scare folk.  

The preacher stepped back, reciting a prayer to himself.  He turned his head, looking out over the flat land in the cool of the morning.  The sun hadn’t risen very far, and the sky was a patchwork of heavy clouds breaking the clear blue sky.  “Reckon it’d be unholy,” he said quietly.  “But we also need some more to go on.  I can’t track worth a lick.  I’m thinkin’ we ought to rustle up the Sheriff, maybe even Night Sky.”

The two ranchers looked at each other.  The Sheriff wouldn’t surprise them, but Night Sky was a gruff Comanche.  He lived in the area, working as a tracker and hunter, selling pelts or helping find stock that had been stolen or people that had gotten lost.  He was unpleasant, but good at his craft, and his attitude rubbed some people the wrong way.

“Preacher,” the foreman said.  He had a carefully blank face, obviously holding up better than the rancher.  “What do you think did this?”

The preacher turned to them and considered.  He knew what it pointed to, but these men didn’t and he wasn’t about to frighten people.  “Not sure,” he allowed.  “But we’ll find out.”  With that, he walked back to his horse and swung into the saddle.  “We’ll be back in a while.  Have one of your boys make sure no coyotes or anything mess with it.”  He turned and rode off before he saw them nod.  Granted, he wasn’t very old, just shy of thirty, but those men were scared and wanted someone to tell them it would be alright and that they’d be taken care of.  

His horse’s easy trot back towards town gave him time to think.  He absently tucked his cross back into his shirt, thinking about what to tell the Sheriff.  Yeah, this seemed like a vampire.  He knew they existed back in Europe, and had an older clergyman tell him back East about a fight he had with one.  Tough creatures, fed on blood, other abilities depending on lineage or some such.  The older clergyman had told him bits and pieces, but he wasn’t sure himself.  From what he’d been told, some were like regular folk but stronger and faster.  Some could change into bats.  This was all based on what kind of vampire they were, being cursed into it, being changed by another vampire or something else.  Apparently these were all possibilities.  But why not say anything to the ranchers?  If they didn’t know what they were, they sure weren’t going to be settled after the explanation they’d demand.  What was for certain was they couldn’t handle displays of faith or sunlight.  You could kill them, but again, that was tricky.  These different types all had different ways of being killed for good.

He let these thoughts bounce around in his head as he rode up to the church and the house next to it.  He wasn’t married yet, so he tried to keep things as clean as he could.  He had a handful of sheep to keep the grass down, and he didn’t bother with planting anything.  He swung his door open and walked into his bedroom.  He pulled open his nightstand and pulled a heavy .44 revolver and holster.  After a moment’s consideration, he walked back into the living room, opened his rolltop desk and reached into the back, pulling out a large, bronze cross.   The old clergyman had admonished him to always keep something like that around.  He couldn’t say why, but he followed that advice ever since.  If the legends about vampires were true, his pistol wouldn’t do much good, but it would make him feel better.  As he headed towards the door, the clouds overhead rumbled, looking darker.  He stopped and sighed.   Then, he reached behind the door and pulled his long rain duster off its peg.  On reflection, he was glad for an excuse.  If people saw the preacher around town with a gun on his hip, they’d get nervous, too.

He swung back up on his horse and touched heels to flank, heading towards the jail at a brisk trot.  The rain clouds overhead rumbled menacingly as he rode up the main street of the town, but held off their impending storm.  The horse’s hooves beat a steady rhythm up to the door of the jail.  The preacher hopped off, looped the reins over the hitching post and went inside.  

The sheriff looked up as he walked in.  His gray eyes matched the iron of his mustache, but he was still of sharp mind and quick, steady hands.  Folk in town knew better than to push the sheriff too far, ever since about five years back, a gun thug had drifted into town.  The sheriff had come to tell him to move along with an 8 gauge shotgun in his hand.  The thug had tried to draw and ended up dying in the street.  The sheriff had gravel in his guts, but was fair.

“Preacher,” he said, standing up from his chair by his desk at the front of the jail.  “Don’t reckon I’ve got many sinners here for you to talk to today.  Night Sky and I were just havin’ us a chat.”  The preacher started, just noticing the other man sitting on the bench by the door.  He just sat so still.  

“No problems, I take?” the preacher asked.  “Mornin’, Night Sky, sheriff,” he said, touching the brim of his hat to them both.

“Good morning, preacher,” the indian replied.

“And to you, preacher,” the sheriff said.  “Naw, we were just havin’ a chat about the rustlers from last week and when the reward would be comin’ in.  Stage in a few days is supposed to have Night Sky’s payoff.  Reckon they’re goin’ choke when they see it’s going to him, so he came to make sure I was there.”  The sheriff looked intently at the preacher, noting the iron on his hip, but saying nothing.

“Ah, I see,” the preacher replied.  “It’s just as well.  I was asked out to the XK Ranch this mornin’, and there’s something I’d like the two of you to see.”

The sheriff and Night Sky looked at each other quizzically, but didn’t waste time getting saddled up.  As they rode out back to the ranch, the preacher gave them the bare bones description of the cow and what had looked to happen.  Neither of the other men commented, but they rode on.  He watched the sheriff lean down and slip the strap off his shotgun’s sheath on the saddle.  

When they rode up, the sky overhead had changed.  The heavy, dark clouds were racing overhead, still breaking up the sunlit sky, but rumbling with thunder.  A young ranch hand sat atop his horse near the dead cow, a rifle slanted across his saddle.  He waved when the three rode up.  “Mornin’,” he greeted them.

“Mornin’, son,” the preacher replied.  “I reckon you’ve got work to do.  After we have a look, we’ll let you know and you can do whatever you want with the carcass.”

“I’d let it rot, myself,” the young man said, turning to spit tobacco on the ground.  “No way anyone’s eatin’ that meat.”  With that, he tipped his hat to the three of them and rode back towards the ranch.  

Night Sky swung of his mustang and passed the reins over.  The preacher took them and stayed atop his own mount, offering to take the sheriff’s as well.  The older man obliged absently, his eyes intent on the body.

“You were right,” said Night Sky in a rough voice.  “The blood is all gone.”  He was carefully poking at the body with the stock of his rifle.  “Like something sucked it out.  There are stories in Mexico of some creatures that do this, but they mainly attack goats.”   He leaned down, his dark eyes suddenly intent.  “But those do not have human hands.”

The sheriff carefully walked up, walking a wide circle around to where Night Sky stood.  Night Sky was pointing at the ground where three fingers and half a palm had been pressed into the soft dirt by a patch of touch prairie grass.  “It looks like something with human hands pushed it to the ground and caught itself.”  He turned and looked, taking careful steps in his soft moccasins.  “Wait.  No, the cow wasn’t pushed over.  These footprints shift and smudge, like it grabbed and threw it to the ground.”

“How do you mean?” the sheriff asked.  “Like, what kind of motion?”

Night Sky stood up and took a few steps back.  “Something like this motion,” he said, planting his feet, then pivoting them, which caused his body to turn.  

“Hrm,” the sheriff said.  “I saw a wrassler in a show a few years ago did a throw like that.  Grabbed the other feller and turned, threw him down hard.  Said he was German or something like that from Europe.”

Night Sky examined the ground more.  He pointed out where the cow had been standing, how it had tried to start running when the throw happened.  The preacher silently considered this.  A blood drinking creature that had the strength to throw a big longhorn cow.  He sighed to himself.  He’d half hoped that Night Sky would mention it being something some animal like a cougar might do if it were too thirsty.  

“That is all I can tell you,” Night Sky said quietly.  “Now, I must go.  I have other work to do today.”  With that, he swung onto his mustang and lit out across the range, away from town.  The preacher and the sheriff turned back towards town, riding briskly to try and beat the rain.  Along the way, the preacher outlined what he knew of vampires and his suspicions.

“Did you mention this to the folk at the XK?” the sheriff asked.

“No, I didn’t,” the preacher replied.  “Didn’t think it right to get them all scared up.”

“That’s smart,” the sheriff said.  As they turned up the edge of the street, the racing clouds created wildly shifting patterns of shadows of the buildings across the street.  It looked like the dark figures were almost running from something.

“So, where do these vampire things come from?” the sheriff asked in a quiet voice as they walked back into the jail.  

“They seem to come from Europe,” the preacher replied.  “The stories come out of the areas near the Mediterranean.”  

“Now I know what it is,” the sheriff said.  “Did you ever meet the feller that settled out in Bat Canyon about a year ago?”

“No, I never did,” the preacher replied.  “Name was Smith, right?”

“That’s what he said.”  The sheriff sat down at his desk.  “Never thought of it ‘fore, but he’s right peculiar.  Speaks with this thick accent, can’t hardly understand him.  Only comes into town after dark or on days when it’s all overcast.  Bat Canyon ain’t a fit place to grow nothin’, walls are so high that the sun don’t shine in there unless it’s right overhead.  Fresh water spring, though.  But let’s consider what you said.  No surprise you ain’t met him if’n he is one of these things.”

Story of William, section 6

"Look alive, lads!" came the bellow from the rear deck.  "We have incoming!"

William and the other Andoly on the deck turned their heads not back, but to the prow of the ship.  Ahead, the other ships in the fleet were cutting through the choppy seas on the high winds.  But then sounds of metal ringing and shouts began drifting back.  

"Fishmen have attacked the lead ships, more on the way!"

William straightened his leather armor and grabbed his sword and shield.  The short blade he’d brought as a spare weapon felt strange to him.  But, he had heeded the older sailors.  No man in his unit wore heavy armor now, but some had adopted long weapons like polearms or even harpoons since stabbing wouldn’t catch in the lines.

And, with only the sound of splashing as their introduction, fishmen clambered over the sides of the ship.  Their armor glittered like opalescent shells and their weapons seemed to be fashioned from living coral.  Their gills flared out, creating crests around their necks.  But their stench waved over the deck, souring in William's nose and making his stomach churn.

He bit back the bile rising in his throat and stepped to meet the attackers.  He swatted aside a thrust from a spear and slashed across, cutting through the scales on its upper arm.  The creature's grip went slack and William drove his blade up and under the bottom edge of the creature's breastplate.  He pulled the blade free and turned as another fishman moved to strike at his back with a wavy-bladed sword.  

That's when Detrious' massive mace took the creature on the side, filling the air with cracks and pops as it flew into and overt the railing.  William stepped beside the big troll and they set about grim work.  William cut the leg out from inert one as Detrious swung high, turning the thing laterally before it every touched the deck.  Detrious smashed the neck of another as William trapped its axe with his shield and sword.

William noted the Jenar sailors around the deck fighting as well.  They favoured one of two styles: fighting with a pair of short weapons like William's sword, or weapons with long reach like polearms, halberds or even harpoons.  The other thing he noticed is that they fought together, in coordinated pairs or groups.

More of the creatures hauled their way up the sides of the ship.  William turned his body so the swing of a large coral axe sliced only leather and kicked the fishman in what he took to be its inner.  He assumed he was right when it gurgled in obvious pain.  That's when William ducked and Detrious unleashed a full-armed swing directly overhead and into the face of the creature, cruising the bony ridges of its face back into its head.

William turned, looking for the next threat.  Some remaining attackers were leaping over the side and into the water.  Their shop had held, by and large.  Men nursed wounds, but the warning had been enough.  That wasn't the case on other ships.  Some ships had rigging collapsing and one was ablaze.  The ship dashed forward into the fleet.  Jenar sailors threw lines to pull men aboard while William and his men stood sentinel against more attacks.

"Sir?" A quiet voice cut through the fog.  William blinked.  Anton was leaned forward.  "Are you alright, sir?"

William shook his head.  Why had he...  As the carriage moved, he brushed aside one of the curtains.  The coach was rolling past the fish market.  "The smell," William said, "reminded me of something."

Story of William, part 5

The ship slowly drifted up to the dock, the timbers creaking and the chatter of the crew drowning out other noises.  William stepped up on the deck, again fitted in his plate armor with his longsword at his hip.  He looked around, his dark eyes looking for familiar faces.

"Sir?" Anton's voice interrupted his train of thought.

"Yes, Anton?"  William turned to face him.  Anton was dressed in a vest and bracers of studded leathers.  He had an emblem of William's elk sigil on a strip of cloth tied around his forehead.

"What are you looking for?"

William took a deep breath.  "Friends, Anton.  People I know should be meeting us here." His gaze swept back to the crowd, scanning for people he knew.  But it wasn't a person that he saw, rather a familiar coach sitting at the end of the dock.  The emblem of his mother's thornes rose was set in the doors in bright enamel, unmistakable.  He turned to see Detrious lumbering up from below decks with chests in his arms.  Leaf came along behind, much happier to be docked.  The older elf disliked the sea, and had remained in the cabins.

"Leaf," William said.  He gestured to the coach.

"Yes, sir," Leaf replied with a smile.  "We will have the chests loaded shortly.  Why don't you go have a seat in the coach?"

William smiled.  Leaf would not hear otherwise, so he headed towards the gangplank.  Adovan had already disembarked, and stood at the base of the plank.  He wrote his plate as well, but had an emblem of William's elk pinned to his tabard.

"You don't have to wear that," William told him as he marched down to the dock.  "Neither of you," he said, turning to Anton.  “You’re very publically aligning yourself with me, and you don’t have to.  You’ll be able to go wherever you’d like once we get things sorted out.”

Anton looked at William, his young face puzzled.  “Sir, why would I not want with you?”

“If you hadn’t saved me from that camp, I’d be dead now,” Adovan said quietly.  “I owe you my life.”

William looked at the two of them, his throat feeling thick.  He couldn’t find the words, and nodded to them instead.  He turned and headed towards the coach.  He had only made a handful of steps when a hand took his elbow.  

He turned, finding a matronly woman with stately bearing glaring at him.  Her imperious nature immediately soured his opinion, but he strove for respect.  “Milady,” William said politely.

“You are William of house Stotts, yes?” she asked in impatient tones.

“I am,” William responded.  His desire for respect was waning quickly.

“You aren’t married yet.”  This wasn’t a question.  The way she said it was an accusation.  “That is a neglect of your duties as a nobleman and a disgrace.”

William saw Anton and Adovan start to step towards the woman and waved them back.  This wasn’t a fight to be settled by strength of arms.  “I have no neglected my duties,” he responded curtly.  “I’ve been fighting in the Army of Unity for the last several years.”

“Do not make excuses,” she responded.  “You should be married.  I am Lady Elaine of the Dentral.  My niece is of your age.  You will find her appropriate.”

William felt his hackles rise in anger.  This was the return he got after everything he’d been through?  “I do not find her appropriate by virtue of being your niece,” William responded.  He couldn’t resist the urge to be uncouth, and spat at her feet.  “You are unwelcome.”  

With that, he turned and strove for the coach.  He angrily threw the door open and stepped inside.  He was surprised to see it empty, but took the seat and unclipped his scabbard from his belt.  He leaned his head back and sighed.  

Footsteps and the creak of the coach’s steps caused him to open his eyes.  Anton carefully took a seat opposite him, looking hesitant.  “That... lady...” he said slowly.  “Her face turned dark, sir.”

“I expected as much,” William replied quietly.  “I insulted her and her niece very intentionally.  I doubt she’ll think much of myself or my family for the rest of her life.”  He looked around.  “Where is Adovan?  He’s not...”

“No,” Anton said.  “He’s at the door.  He won’t let anyone in.”  The young man fidgeted uncomfortably.  “I don’t understand.”

“I know,” William replied.  “I may have been a good soldier, Anton, but this world of polite society and politics is something I’m not good at.  That’s why I asked about wearing my emblem earlier.”

Anton looked back, meeting William’s eyes.  “I’m your man, always.”  There was iron in the young man’s voice that made William smile.  He looked around the inside of the coach and found the hangers beside the doors.

“In that case,” William said, “if you’re going to be an Andolman, you need to have a full uniform.”  With that, William pulled the two curved fighting knives with blades the length of his forearm from their sheaths, where they were kept in case of emergency.  “We can’t have a man of our entourage go out underdressed.”  William smiled as he handed the two blades to Anton.

Story of William, part four

William woke with a start, his eyes snapping open and his hand reaching for a sword. All around him, he saw darkness, heard unfamiliar groans and... With a sigh, he sat up on his cot. The creaks and groans of a ship at sea were not new to him, but he hadn't slept well since the bomb. In truth, it wasn't the bomb that bothered him. Being relieved of command, that was what tormented him. He would never rise to general, not now. In his heart, he knew that he had done what had been needed, but now, he'd never follow in his father's...

“No,” he told himself. “Don't dwell on that.” He took a deep breath and walked to the porthole, sliding the cover to let some light in. Brilliant sunlight cut the darkness, revealing a cabin of deep red wood, warm and inviting in the soft glow of the morning. He turned to the chest under his bunk and drew out a fresh set of clothes and set about preparing for the day. After he had dressed, he pulled the studded leather armor hanging from a hook on the wall, then belted on his short sword and dagger.

He smiled, thinking back to the first voyage he took, heading to retake the city of Compa from the monstrous fishmen. A salty old sailor had looked at him and shook his head. 'Son, I'm sure you're tougher than steel on dry land, but here, that armor sinks and that long blade catches the lines. You'll make a right pretty corpse.” While he felt strange without his familiar, heavy plate, he pushed the concern aside and headed to the deck.

Some things he expected to see. They had left shore yesterday, heading back towards Andol. There were Jenar sailors, as confident on these decks as if they'd been born there. Some stories said they had; Jenar always claimed to be happier at sea than on land. But where you'd see them bare-chested and empty-handed in years past, now they walked with leather breastplates strapped on, and short swords or daggers thrust through sashes. Spears hung in racks along the rails, ready to repel borders. Some of the larger men even carried heavy-bitted axes that looked stained from hard use.

Things he didn't expect to see were some of the men with him doing as poorly as they were. Anton sat with his back to the mainmast, his face green and his eyes fixed firmly on the deck. William walked to the youth and knelt down. “Anton,” he said quietly, “how are you?”

“Fine, sir,” he replied. His eyes remained firmly on the deck, which was an oddity. He had regarded William as something of a hero since the rescue a few months back, but now he wouldn't even look up.

“Are you now? Why don't you look me in the eye?”

“I can't, sir,” Anton said glumly. “If I look up and see the horizon pitching around again, I'll get sick. One of the sailors told me if I got sick on the deck, I'd have to hang from the prow and clean the figurehead.”

Did he now, William thought to himself. “Then you stay here. If you need to go to the cabins, go to mine. Understood?”

The youth's jerky nod was his only answer. William left him to his misery and turned on his heel. He'd had a similar experience his first journey by ship as well. The pitching to and fro had settled out in fairly short order, but it wasn't how he was most confident.

Standing at the rail, Adovan looked out over the choppy waters. His blue eyes were hard and cold, and he still wore his long blade on his hip. But, he had listened as well and had layer of studded leather instead of his breastplate as well.

“Adovan,” William stated as he walked up. “How are you this morning.”

“Well enough, sir. Feeling nervous. I heard about the fishmen.”

William leaned on the rail and looked out at the waters. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I fought them on a few occasions. Compa, Glaris, and a few times in between when they tried to harry the fleet. I learned to get my sea legs pretty quickly.” He felt a wave of nausea roll over him as one of the beach assaults tried to pull itself from the corner of his mind he kept it in. “Very different. They don't speak our language and they smell horrendous. It's a... disconcerting mixture to a battle.”

Adovan's eyes twitched to him, then back to sea. “I see. Sir.”

William sighed. He couldn't read Adovan. The man was as cold and steely as when William had pulled him off the torture rack in that goblin camp. “Ever since Glaris, though, I haven't heard any stories of them attacking ships. I can't help but think that holding cities on land must have stretched them, and with those losses, they're not strong enough to resume raiding.”

Adovan's posture didn't change, but a slow, deep breath signaled a little tension fading from the air. “Aye sir, you'd have heard more than I.”

William pushed away from the rail. A few days out from Andol, on the sea under which the vicious fishmen dwelt, and he was focused on what would happen in Andol. He was relieved of command. He was no longer a soldier in Andol's Great Horde. He wasn't what he always wanted to be. How would they be received on return?

His head swimming, he didn't even noticed the thudding steps as Detrius marched up to him. “Hey 'dere boss!” he said in his typical rumble. “How you like 'dis weather?”

William looked up at the looming Detrius. The big troll had a jolly smile on his face, trying to be cheerful despite the gray mood following everyone around. William sighed and began to answer.

William turned aside a thrust from a shoddy goblin spear and slashed at the horrid little creature's throat. It collapsed, unable to scream, as he stepped over it and thrust into the back of another and upward, into it's ribcage. He withdrew the blade with a grunt and a kick to the creature's back and stopped a brief moment to assess his position. The battle raged in earnest around him. Detrius stayed right at William's side, his own shield not so much turning aside strikes from poorly made goblin weapons, but smashing them with incredible force, almost as impressively as the blows from his mace. Bannerman Torval had strapped the flag of the unit, a fight clutching a blade of lightning, to his back and had set about, his two axes catching blows and cleaving at arms in the way he favored in turn.

William stumbled, tasting something bitter in his mouth. “No, not again,” he whispered.

That's when he saw it. One small goblin squirmed it's way through the legs of others and bolted forward, its eyes glued on the general and clutching a wooden box to its chest. As it ran past others, they started to chant in their screeching voices.

"Bomb! Bomb! Bomb! Kill the general!"

William felt his blood run cold and forced his way forward. He felt like his legs were churning through deep mud and time was running more slowly. Next to him, he saw Detrius lift his hand and throw a minor magical spell from his hand. It landed and the box clattered to the ground, bouncing forward towards Korgan. The goblin had stopped, confused and died to the crushing blow of a blacksmith's hammer. William's eyes flicked from the box to the general, whose eyes widened.

There was one choice.

William dove, dropping his sword and shield and throwing himself onto the bomb. He pressed the box to his breastplate and curled in to try and cover as much as possible.

"Boss!" Detrius' voice bellowed out.

“Boss!” Detrius' voice bellowed again. William felt something warm on his chin, but felt too weak to lift his hand to it. Detrius was blocking the sun for a reason he didn't quite grasp, and Anton and Adovan were looking at him. Adovan's long hair was hanging towards William's face. He realized he was lying on the deck.

“Get him to the cabin!” Detrius shouted. “You 'dere, make way! Get outta 'da way!” He hefted William's form, supporting under one arm while Adovan supported him under the other. Anton ripped a strip off his shirt and started wiping at William's face, the white cloth coming away stained with crimson. William tried to stand on his feet, to push them away, but he felt weak as water. His head lolled and his eyes shut.

Story of William, section 3

William felt pain. His chest and abdomen burned and his arms and legs had what felt like several searing cuts in them. He knew the pain of being cut and slashed, but this was worse. He tried to take a minute to figure out where he was; was he lying on the ground in the field? What happened?

The memory flooded back over him. The bomb, the explosion, and he almost shuddered and pain shot through his body anew. It overpowered all other feeling in his body and clenched his jaws over any sound he might make. He tried to breathe slowly, regularly and wait for it to ebb away.

"Yes sir, he will live," said an unfamiliar voice. "Though I don't know how he didn't bleed to death. Or even survive that kind of idiocy."

"That's enough, Jaks," came the sharp reply. That was General Korgan's voice, deep with command.

William let his eyes slide open and blinked several times, trying to remove the gritty feeling and the feeling of things clinging to his eyelashes. He started to lift his arm, but a gentle hand pressed it back down and he felt the edge of a camp cot under his forearm. "No, milord, allow me." Leaf. William smiled slightly. Leaf blotted at Williams eyes with a damp cloth and wiped carefully.

"Oh, look," said the unfamiliar voice. Jaks, was it? "Our noble idiot is awake. Don't move. I've had to pull more shrapnel out of you and stitch you back up so many times I'm sick of looking at you. You pop those stitches and I'm done." The source of the voice wandered into Williams's field of vision. He was shorter, with a round face, dark hair and black rimmed spectacles. "It's rare you see someone mess themselves up so badly that the red magics can't heal things back up completely."

"Jaks," came the general's voice again. "Stand down." William tried to turn his head, but instead, Leaf lifted his head up and put a pillow underneath it. The first new thing that he saw was his own body. It was covered in strips of bandage, some spots dark with old blood, some bright with fresh blood and some rare spots of unspoiled white. His torso was completely covered, his arms and legs wound in irregular patterns.

"William" said the general as he stepped to where William could see him.

"Yes, sir," replied. "Reporting, sir."

"I owe you my life, William," the general said. "Your men turned the tide of the battle. You and your troll were the tipping point for securing camp. But you just dove on a bomb. What were you thinking, soldier?"

William looked at him and took a breath. "They were trying to kill you, sir. You're the one that masterminded this campaign. I couldn't allow that, sir." He looked around as much as he could. "I couldn't do that, sir."

The general looked at him and turned on his heel, marching towards a table covered with papers and maps. "I do not take my debts lightly, William. I will remember this, but the fact remains, you are in no shape to return to the field. Your injuries were so extensive that even Doctor Jaks considerable skill wasn't enough to get you back on your feet today. From what he's told me, he had to use his magics to keep you from bleeding out and then stitch you again, repeatedly. I cannot put you back in command of your unit."

William felt a lump rise in his throat. That was not what was supposed to... His father never was relieved of command. "I understand, sir." William looked around for something to hold to, something that had survived, and spied his blade leaning against one of the tables in the room. "Sir, what of my gear?"

Korgan smiled at him briefly. "I know you don't like being relieved of command. Hopefully, this will be temporary. But your gear, well, Anton?" Anton stood up from by one of the tables where William hadn't seen him. He held up William's blade, whole and gleaming, as if someone had been cleaning it. Anton then held up William's shield and breastplate. The armor had blackened scorch marks on it and so many holes where the steel curled inward. The shield was broken, the wooden back barely held together by the steel plate on the front.

"My shield," William started. "It's not..."

"No," Leaf said quietly. "Detrious said it had broken before you dove on the bomb. I suppose that's why you dropped it."

"It's good that you did," said the doctor. "The wooden splinters in that would have been much harder to remove and you probably would have gotten gravely ill. Call that a good decision."

William let his head sag back onto the pillow. He felt weak, even after such a short conversation. "What about the camp?" He knew things hadn't gone too badly, evidenced by Leaf and Anton's presence, but he had to ask.

"They are fine," the general responded. "Nothing ever got near them, but your man, Adovan, was livid over not being there for you." The general walked over and patted William's shoulder. "You did more than I could have asked of you, soldier. Rest, and we'll talk about your future soon."

Story of William, section 2

"Oh, son," she said, needlessly adjusting his tabard, "you're the image of your father at this age." William's mother beamed at him. "And off to fight, just like he did." Her voice strained to keep its cheer at that last bit.

"Mother, I can't stand by while these things overrun cities and enslave people. Protector Garth's men even repelled an attack against Andol itself." William took a deep breath. "This is what Father has been training me for my whole life." He squeezed her hand with his own leather-gloved fist. "I'm your son, do you expect me to let any of these worthless creatures stop me?"

"No," she said, still trying to keep her smile and still adjusting at his tabard. "You're far too stubborn for that." She stopped suddenly. "Oh, dear, I forgot. Wait here. You, too, Detrious." With that, she turned and walked back towards the family coach. William turned to see Detrious picking at his own leather armor.

"Detrious, what are you doing?" William asked as the big troll kept readjusting.

"Well, I figure, if you're mother finks yours is crooked, mine's gotta be worse." And with that, Detrious went back to trying to fiddle his leathers into what should be straight and presentable. William almost said something, then smiled and shook his head. This time, it really wasn't worth the effort.

And his mother returned, carrying a bundle gently as a babe, her emerald eyes shining in the late morning sunlight. She held it out to him, a long and slender bundle. William grinned a bit as he picked at the bits of rope keeping it tied. "Oh," she said, irritated, "just let me." She deftly drew her curved belt knife and slit the wrappings, and the velvet fell away, revealing a new, gleaming blade.

William picked it up slowly. The blade was a wide broadsword blade, wrought out of amazingly fine steel that gleamed in the light of the morning. The hilt was covered in a heavy basket, backed with a lattice of heavy steel to protect the hand. He turned the blade in his fist, feeling its balance even in its length. It was a longer blade, standing up to his waist, and he was a taller than average man himself.

"This blade is..." he began.

"Yes," she said quietly. "Just like the family one. I wanted you to have as solid a blade as possible when you went out. I know you went through so much with the one you have, but..."

"Of course," he replied. He pulled the cross guard blade from his belt and flipped the hilt towards her. "Maybe one day my little brother will learn to use one beyond which end to hold. This is a good blade for that."

"Your brother," his mother smiled, "or his son, yes. But given him and his wife, I expect they'll be more inclined towards teaching their children magics." She carefully slid the blade into her own belt, where it didn't look out of place, oddly enough. "Where are you headed?"

"First stop is to pick up troops, assign them commanders and designations. I know our family is minor nobility, but I imagine they'll be putting me in charge of some sort of heavy infantry. I don't know what they'll do with Detrious."

"I wouldn't worry about him, son." She touched the elk on his tabard, the emblem he had chosen for himself. "Don't you forget, there is work to be done after the war."

"Yes, Mother," William smiled. He hugged her, patted her dark brown hair and turned to march onto the ship as a proud Andolman going to fight. But over his shoulder, he did her one bit.

"Detrious, you stay near him. Stay near him, and keep him safe. That order is more important than any you'll be given until you see me again, do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Opening section, revised

"William!" came a voice, shouting in a panic. "Lord William! We have an urgent missive! One of the mages received a message!"

William looked up from his cramped writing desk where he had been studying a map of the surrounding area. His tent was lit by the light of the sun, low in its morning rise, and by a lantern sitting in the corner of the small desk. He bent, almost reflexively, to pick up his gauntlets and bracers from the floor, careful to bend at the waist thanks to the heavy breastplate he wore every waking moment since marching south. Next to him, Leaf stirred, his eyes looking first to William and then to the young lad still sleeping on a hastily constructed pallet in one corner of the tent. "Milord?" he asked hesitantly.

"No, I don't think there's anything coming at us, Leaf," William said quietly. "Otherwise the horns would have sounded." The sentries had their orders to sound off if the reports had enemies approaching, so as to have the men roused and ready, regardless of the message reaching him or not. "I think we've been sitting here long enough. For Guide's sake, Leaf, you'd think that heavy assault infantry would be on the move and not holed up on a mountainside."

"I understand. Though, I do apologize again for not learning the magics. I could relay messages to you immediately if I had." Leaf's eyes didn't shift nervously, he didn't wring his hands, his green-tinted skin didn't even change it's pallor, he just stood there, cool and calm. This was not the first alert they'd had, and it wasn't even Leaf's first full campaign. He was older than William by twenty or more years, and had served with William's father.

"Please, Leaf, not this again. If I could learn it, I would've done it, but we have good men that do this."

"Yes, milord."

A man burst into the tent, breathing hard, with a missve in-hand and a heavily armored man behind him. Adovan loomed over the messenger, his blue eyes intent and sunken into a face just beginning to recover from gauntness. "A magic message came from the general's camp, sir! There are goblins preparing to assault!"

William heard Leaf suck in a breath through his teeth, and the cot creaked as the youth sat up. "Orders?"

"Yes, sir, we're ordered to hit the goblins as soon as possible. The general's camp is fortifying and all nearby units are being called in. We're the closest." The man's breathlessness hadn't lessened, and his eyes were wide.

"We march," William said, beginning to buckle the bracers onto his arms. Leaf stepped in and deftly swatted his hands away to do up the buckles himself. "Have Bannerman Torval and Sergeant Detrius form the men. Camphands and retainers stay. If we're successful, we'll be back by nightfall, and if we're not, they are to scatter and head back to the nearest group in the army."

"Milord," Leaf began, before William cut him off.

"No, Leaf. You and Adovan are to go with them. Get back to the family estate and tell Mother what happened. Anton will go with you. He has my approval to stay at the estate. And she will want to know what happened to me if I can't tell her myself."

"Yes, milord. But I was going to ask if you were certain you wanted Detrius to go with you."

"Leaf, I don't think any of us could stop him, do you?"

The messenger had already run back through the tentflaps, but Adovan remained behind. His face was carefully blank, but his eyes almost burned in their deep sockets. "Adovan," William said, "I know you want to strike back at the greenskins, but listen to me. You have to protect Leaf and Anton if things go badly, keep them from those prison camps. I need a man I can trust here. Are you that man?" Adovan's face fell slightly, but he nodded all the same. "Good man."

With the last buckle done up on his armor, William slipped the chainmail coif over his head, picked up his shield and slid his heavy-bladed longsword into its sheath. He ducked as he exited the tent, as he did anything in that tent but sit or lie down. As he stepped out into the cool morning air, he saw the men moving to form up and the great, hulking form of Detrius marching up and down the lines, waving his mace and bellowing.

"Get in line! Get in line! You, 'dere, you a terrible soldier! Be ready! We gettin' ready to move!" His leather armor strained over broad shoulders and tough, craggy gray skin, but men paid heed. Detrius had a talent for many things, but patience wasn't one of them. Clobbering people with his fists or smashing things with his mace, that was a different story. But even he quieted as William stepped to the head of the formation.

"Men," he called out, "we have little time. Goblins are attacking General Korgan's camp. They are fortified, but we are the nearest force. Our orders are to do what we do best, hit the enemy from the side and try to break their resolve. This is what we are for, and we will succeed!" Short as it was, the men shouted their agreement and began to march. William strode at the head of their lines with Bannerman Torval.

"Milord," Torval greeted him formally.

"Torval. There isn't much time. Do you think we can manage a forced march?"

"With the rest we've had since the last assaut, sir, I believe we could almost run the whole way."

William gave him a half-smile. "Force march will be fine. I want their strength at the fight, not getting to it."

Torval returned the smile and called out for the men to begin the forced march of long strides to cover the land. They marched down the hillside along a recently-made roadway, cut in their ascent to the camp's current position. Korgan had stated that the purpose of the heavy assault unit William led was to have men that were between heavy infantry and light that could bring enough force to strike at openings in enemy formations and move quickly enough to do so. While this wasn't a standard practice, Korgan's unorthodox approach had liberated Compa, Glaris and Eumoyn and pushed the goblins further and further back as the allied forces of human and faykin advanced. And so, William's men moved as quickly as he allowed, ranging through the untamed wilds deep in the goblin lands towards the general's camp.

The camp had been backed to a pair of high, steep mountains so as to limit approaches, and as William's men crested the ridge, he could see that it was working. Barely. The forces of the general's guard were in a tight arc, just at the edge of the camp, and being pressed upon by a writhing green mass of goblins that outnumbered them at least two to one. William's own force numbered just shy of eighty thanks to recent losses, but they were trained for this. He raised his sword high and the men behind him drew their weaponry and as he lowered the blade, the group of them broke into a charge. They didn't cheer, yell or shout as they ran. The creak of leather and clatter of armor was their cadence, blending into the noisy cacophony of the battle before them.

William ran with the frontline of his men. He couldn't fathom sending these men he was charged with into a fight without being in it himself. The men snarled as they crashed into the enemy line, their weapons falling together and a wave of goblins died. They had smashed through almost a quarter of the mass before the goblins realized that were being assaulted. Finely wrought steel blades, heavy-bitted axes and sturdily-made maces and hammers tore the goblins apart before them.

William turned aside a thrust from a shoddy goblin spear and slashed at the horrid little creature's throat. It collapsed, unable to scream, as he stepped over it and thrust into the back of another and upward, into it's ribcage. He withdrew the blade with a grunt and a kick to the creature's back and stopped a brief moment to assess his position. The battle raged in earnest around him. Detrius stayed right at William's side, his own shield not so much turning aside strikes from poorly made goblin weapons, but smashing them with incredible force, almost as impressively as the blows from his mace. Bannerman Torval had strapped the flag of the unit, a fight clutching a blade of lightning, to his back and had set about, his two axes catching blows and cleaving at arms in the way he favored in turn.

William snapped his eyes back forward as two of the disgusting creatures barreled towards him. One raised a knobby, two handed club overhead and William swung his shield in an arc to bat it aside and twisted his arm to trap it against the ground. As he did, the other goblin struck at his chest with a rusty looking sword. William let the blade hit his breastplate, exhaled on the impact through clenched teeth and swung low, catching the blade bearing goblin in the knee. He then pivoted, stabbed at the other's face and it fell away, screaming and clutching at a ruined face. With a side step, he stepped on the first goblin's neck with all the force he could muster. He felt a crack under his heavy boot and then, suddenly, they had broken through.

General Korgan's camp was an impressive array of order, even in the chaos of the fight. Men stood with spears pointed outward over the shoulders of men with large shields and heavy bladed short swords. The men before him smiled grim smiles as his vanguard punched through the goblin mass and it seemed to recede from around them. The high-pitched screeching of the goblins seemed to fade a bit, their stench lessen and the fervor of the fight began to ebb from William's blood. That's when the first explosion hit.

Men to William's right flew back, their faces bloody. Some had their armor punctured by heavy pieces of metal, others bore wounds only on exposed skin, inconsistent and varied as the men that were wounded. William saw some had sharpened bits of metal gouged into their bodies while others pulled forks and table knives from their armor, deformed by the blast. William turned to look at Detrius, who grimly returned the look.

"Shrapnel bomb, boss," he said simply.

William looked back to the line. The bomb had done it's job and opened a hole in the lines. The goblins had displayed uncommon cunning and drawn back to focus on where the bomb would land and pressed the forces immediately around the hole in the lines, fighting to keep it open. Some of the goblins pushed their way past the lines and into the camp. William turned back to Torval and grabbed him by the tunic.

"Turn the men to push those goblins off the line. I'm going in the camp. Too many people that aren't soldiers are trapped in there. Detrius, with me!"

"But sir!" Torval began.

"Now!" William shouted. He turned towards the lines of men, Detrius at his heels. "Hold, men! Hold!" he shouted as he made his way through the formation. He emerged from the other side to see something that made his Andoly heart proud. The wheelwrights, the blacksmiths, the seamstresses, the cooks, all fought at the oncoming goblins with whatever came to hand. He saw a cook hamstring a goblin with a butcher knife before a wheelwright swung a wagon tongue overhead and smashed its skull into the mud. But what caught his eye was General Korgan himself, wearing leather armor and an embroidered surcoat. He swung his signature spear, with a thick, heavy blade at one end and a weighted steel globe at the other end. The blade took one goblin across the stomach, the heavy pommel took it across the head and he stepped, thrusting the blade forward into the chest of another.

William threw himself at the hole in the line and , putting his shoulder behind his shield and crashing into the nearest green-skinned enemies. Detrius' thundering steps followed him, and the first downward swing of his mace found a goblin skull and flipped its limp body over the point of impact. William thrust low, catching a goblin in the gut and drew it back, flinging his arm outward across the eyes of another goblin. The general had masterminded this whole campaign. He must not fall. He pressed forward, trying to force the goblins away from the general.

That's when he saw it. One small goblin squirmed it's way through the legs of others and bolted forward, its eyes glued on the general and clutching a wooden box to its chest. As it ran past others, they started to chant in their screeching voices.

"Bomb! Bomb! Bomb! Kill the general!"

William felt his blood run cold and forced his way forward. He felt like his legs were churning through deep mud and time was running more slowly. Next to him, he saw Detrius lift his hand and throw a minor magical spell from his hand. It landed and the box clattered to the ground, bouncing forward towards Korgan. The goblin had stopped, confused and died to the crushing blow of a blacksmith's hammer. William's eyes flicked from the box to the general, whose eyes widened.

There was one choice.

William dove, dropping his sword and shield and throwing himself onto the bomb. He pressed the box to his breastplate and curled in to try and cover as much as possible.

"Boss!" Detrius' voice bellowed out.

Then, there was thunder and everything went black.